


Grownups

by EmmyAngua



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Coming Out, Growing Up, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Mentors, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 05:11:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyAngua/pseuds/EmmyAngua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somehow - without anyone ever being sure how it happens - Sherlock becomes Archie's mentor. At least he *thinks* he's the mentor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Human Heart

**Author's Note:**

> For justlikeluna who (though she may not remember doing it) wrote down 'coming out' in my prompt notebook.
> 
> “A word of advice, be who you are, wear what you want, just… learn how to run real fast.” – Marc St James, Ugly Betty

Archie sits in Mrs. Hudson’s cramped kitchen. He’s attempting to make a tower using all of the biscuits on the plate she set out, but his heart’s not in it.

 

He’s currently under the belief that he’s cursed.

 

How many of Mr. Holmes’s clients are banned from consulting him by their _mums_? Probably none. Even if you have a murderer for a mum you could probably sneak away at some point, but Archie has so far failed at that too. He’s been trying to get here for weeks, ever since Mary’s wedding, but his mum has been too busy.

 

So far Archie’s had to sit through a family photo session (even though Laurence isn’t married to mum yet and doesn’t count as family) and a picnic (Laurence wouldn’t let him collect frogspawn from the pond) and then they went to Thorpe Park, which was admittedly quite good until they told him he was too little to go on the Saw themed roller-coaster. The only thing keeping him going was the knowledge that if he pestered enough then his mum would eventually bring him to see Mr. Holmes.

 

And now, after she’s _finally_ given in, they aren’t going upstairs at all.

 

Mrs. Hudson gave all sorts of excuses. Sherlock’s too tired. Sherlock’s not in the mood for visitors. Sherlock’s not himself. Sherlock’s not been doing so well after the _wedding_ (she mouthed the last word with a knowing look at his mum.)

 

So here Archie is, stuck here while they go over every detail of the wedding as though they weren’t both there the first time around.

_Footsteps._

 

Archie tilts his head and stares at the ceiling. Those footsteps may be the first bit of good luck he’s had in weeks, because if Sherlock is walking around up there (probably while doing some incredibly cool experiment) then he can’t be too tired to see Archie.

 

“Mrs. Hudson?” he pastes on his most angelic smile. “Can I use your bathroom please?”

 

\--

 

Archie’s never snuck around before, but it turns out that he’s really good at it. He made it all the way up the stairs without making them creak.

 

Mr. Holmes is talking really quietly. There’s another voice too, a lady’s, and she’s talking like Archie’s mum does when she’s telling him off while trying not to laugh. The voices are in the kitchen and he leans forward to peer through the glass.

 

It turns out that the landing does creak.

 

The voices stop. Archie gets a brief glimpse of movement behind the frosted glass, hears a door closing somewhere in the flat, and then Mr. Holmes is standing in the doorway to the living room.

 

“Archie.”

 

He says it in a special way that isn’t a greeting, but isn’t annoyed either.

 

“Hello,” says Archie conversationally. “I’m not meant to be up here but I came anyway.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because they were talking about weddings.”

 

Mr. Holmes’s face relaxes. “Fair enough.”

 

He gestures for Archie to follow him inside but Archie only makes it as far as the threshold because the red chair is missing. The only other place to sit is the sofa, which is miles away from Sherlock’s chair.

 

Mr. Holmes eventually realises that Archie isn’t going to sit on the sofa. He huffs, gets one of the wooden chairs, and places it opposite his own.   

 

“What happened to the chair?” Archie asks. “Did you-”

 

“Yes I did,” says Mr. Holmes quickly, even though he couldn’t have worked out what Archie was going to say yet. “Next question?”

 

“Where’s the lady? Is she in the toilet? Where does she sit?”

 

“That’s three questions. And what lady?”

 

“The one you were talking to just now.”

 

“There’s no one else here.”

 

They stare at each other for a long while. Archie gives in first (even though he’s _way_ better at staring) because he’s here for business and can’t afford to waste time when, at any moment, his mum might realise he’s been in the toilet for ages and come looking for him.

 

He makes a mental note to try and use the toilet here though, just to see if there is a lady inside.

 

He’s already worked out how to begin this conversation.

 

“All they want to talk about downstairs is Mary and John’s wedding. Hats and dresses and napkins and-”

 

“Well there’s no danger of that up here,” says Mr. Holmes shortly.

 

Archie can tell he’s beginning to get irritated whenever the wedding is mentioned, but he doesn’t understand why. He wore the suit like he was meant to and then he helped solve a murder, so in his opinion the day went about a thousand times better than he’d expected.

 

“My mum’s getting married,” Archie explains. “That’s why she’s talking about Mary’s wedding so much.”

 

“Well I won’t be going.”

 

“You’re not invited. I tried to get her to, but she didn’t think you’d want to go.”

 

“She’s right.”

 

“Anyway I’m not here about her.”

 

“Good.”

 

“I’m here about Laurence.”

 

Mr. Holmes sighs really loudly.

 

“Who?”

 

“Laurence is who she’s marrying. I think he’s suspicious.”

 

Sherlock leans forward. “Why?”

 

“Because he makes his own marmalade. And he watches video cassettes and got cross when I didn’t know what one was. And he collects stuff with post boxes on and he’s scared of horror movies and he calls me ‘young man’ all the time. And he threw up when I showed him those photos you gave me.”

 

Mr. Holmes rolls his eyes. “You promised not to show anyone. They’re police property.”

 

Archie shrugged. “Mum already found them. She doesn’t mind; she thought they were interesting.”

 

Archie tries not to grin at his own genius at this point.

 

“She writes horror stories, you know. Here-” he takes one of her best out of his bag ( _Breath of Blood: Part of the Lydia Blood Series_ ) and hands it over “- they’re really gory. That’s why she didn’t mind the photos; she says it’s in my DNA and that she was reading me King novels while I was in the womb. I bet you’d have loads to talk about with her. I bet if you took her out to dinner you could easily work out what’s up with Laurence…”

 

Mr. Holmes says nothing for a moment. Then he sighs.

 

“Have you ever dissected a human heart?”

 

Archie shakes his head while trying to radiate his desire to fix this state of affairs. _Today might not be cursed after all…_

 

They go into the kitchen (Archie tries to peer down the hall for signs of someone else, but can’t see anything) and Mr. Holmes retrieves the heart from the fridge. For a short while they are so engrossed that Archie has quite forgotten about his plan.

 

“Why are you trying to set me up with your mother?” Mr. Holmes asks.  

 

Archie doesn’t try to deny it. “I just think you’re more interesting than Laurence. But I do think there’s something wrong with him that you need to investigate…”

 

Mr. Holmes sighs again.

 

“Archie… do you love your mum?”

 

It’s such a stupid question that Archie nearly drops the heart (he’s holding it in his hand because he’s feeling how heavy it is.)

 

“Yeah.”

 

“But you don’t want her to marry Laurence?”

 

Archie fixes his eyes on the heart and shakes his head. “No.”

 

“Well when you… uh… love someone… you want them to be happy. You want your mother to be happy, don’t you?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Mr. Holmes drops his voice, as though he doesn’t want anyone to hear. He sounds like he’s having a hard time talking and Archie can’t seem to look away from the heart that he’s now replaced on the table.

 

“You don’t get to decide what makes her happy. Right now Laurence makes her happy. So you have to pretend to like Laurence and just be glad for her. You have to be nice and smile and I know how horrible that is. But in time… one day you’ll realise that Laurence isn’t so bad.”

 

He doesn’t say any more. Very slowly Archie looks up. Mr. Holmes isn’t looking at him. He’s staring at the heart too.

 

He must realise Archie is watching him because his voice returns to normal. “And I promise to check that Laurence isn’t a complete weirdo for you, just to be on the safe side.”

 

“ARCHIE!”

 

The kitchen door opens. Mrs. Hudson and his mum are on the threshold and his mum looks furious.

 

“You weren’t supposed to bother Mr. Holmes!”

 

“Quite alright,” says Sherlock, standing up. “He was helping me dissect a cow’s heart.”

“A _cow’s_ heart?!”

 

Archie has never been so betrayed in all his _life._

 

“Oh Archie, you’ll be so advanced in science. I knew all those horror stories would help you one day…”

 

“You better wash your hands,” says Mrs. Hudson, who is glaring at Sherlock for some reason.

 

Archie stomps over to the sink and rinses the blood from his hands in a half-hearted way. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mrs. Hudson peer down the hallway.

 

“Where’s-?”

 

“Where’s who?” Sherlock asks flatly.  

 

“Come on Archie,” says his mum. “We’ve taken up enough time.”

 

Archie sighs, dries his hands, and turns to leave.

 

“Remember what I said,” Sherlock says as he ushers them all out.

 

“You _lied!_ You said it was a human heart!”

 

“Yes well, grownups don’t let children play with body parts…”

 

Archie turns and catches Sherlock’s eye. When Mrs. Hudson and his mum aren’t looking, Sherlock winks.

 

\--

**End of Chapter One**

[Recipe for Jammy Dodgers](https://www.jamieoliver.com/magazine/recipes-view.php?title=jamie-dodgers)

(Because earlgreytea68 thinks I should end all chapters of all fics with a recipe)


	2. Scrabble

“Ooh, what about this one?”

 

His mum picks out a blue scarf and winds it around his neck. Archie glowers. He has already spent the last hour in Debenhams and he’s so fed up that he’s _almost_ ready to give up on visiting the toy section if it means going home earlier.

 

“All you need now is the silly hat!”

 

Archie just looks at her. She’s used to him not talking much and tends to chatter enough for two.

 

“You already look like him; I think your father suspects me of having an affair.”

 

She doesn’t mean that; she’s just teasing. Besides, he’s not seen his dad since mum married Laurence, and that was months ago.

 

At his lack of response she sighs and pulls the scarf away.

 

“I know I know: Sherlock’s your friend, you aren’t trying to copy him…but you make such a cute mini version! And you dressed like him for Halloween.”

_She_ dressed him like that for Halloween. He hopes she never shows Sherlock the pictures, though he’d probably be impressed with the fake human arm she’d made (using mincemeat and a flesh-coloured lycra bodysuit) to hold his goody bag. He never got to show it to Sherlock; it was starting to smell bad.

 

Behind his mum, Laurence holds up a hat and scarf set. It’s dark green. Archie nods begrudgingly at the choice.  As annoying as Laurence can be, he seems to understand how annoying shopping is, and he doesn’t care if Archie talks or not.

 

“We’ll have to go and see him soon,” says his mum. “Last time Sherlock wasn’t free.”

_And the two times before that too._

 

Archie turns and walks toward the escalators as bit faster than necessary. His mum rushes to catch up. She puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“Oh Archie… you were getting so much better about talking.”

 

They climb on and begin to roll down to the ground floor.

 

“Is this because he’s been so busy lately? I’m sure he’s not avoiding you… it’s just hectic because John’s back. They’ve been working so much lately; I think Sherlock’s trying to cheer him up.” This is she says to Laurence. “Male bonding, I’ll never understand it.”

 

Archie ignores her and they climb off and head towards the toy section. He’s in the lead and his mum must think he’s out of earshot because she says something to Laurence really quietly.

 

“I don’t know how we can tell him… not when he’s like this.”

 

Tell him _what?_

 

\--

 

 

Archie’s pretty sure his mum has arranged this visit. She’s probably made a whole list of things she wants Sherlock to sort out. It’s embarrassing the way she takes him aside for a little chat as though Archie can’t see them.

 

Normally Sherlock looks really serious and then pulls a face as soon as she’s gone; today he barely seems to notice.

 

Maybe it’s because of a case. Archie hopes so; he’s always secretly hoped some big emergency might happen when Sherlock was babysitting him and Archie would have to come along too.

 

Then again if there was a case, Dr. Watson would be here. He’s not. But there are some crumbs on the table next to his chair as if he wasn’t here long ago.

 

In the end they play scrabble, because it’s the only board-game Archie likes.  Archie’s good with words and Sherlock plays with a handicap (his words have to be names relating to murder in some way.) It’s fun for a while, because Archie gets to hear a good story every time Sherlock puts a word down.

 

He is just considering fitting ‘osmosis’ around one of Sherlock’s words when Sherlock takes a turn and spoils his chances by taking the space below to add ‘l’, ‘a’, and ‘y’ to the ‘p’ of ‘Shipman’.

 

“’ _Play’_ isn’t a murder word.”

 

Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “Rule amendment. Murder words and things I want to talk about.”

 

“I _knew_ she told you about the school play.”

 

“ _The Wind in the Willows_ ,” says Sherlock. “Sounds awful. What is it? Some drippy romance?”

 

Archie snorts. “No. It’s about animals. The Mole is trying to get his home back and Ratty, Badger, and Mr. Toad help him.”

 

“Ugh! No wonder you don’t want any part of it. You’re nearly nine; surely that’s something for infants?”

 

Archie shrugs. “It’s ok.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Which part did you actually want?”

 

Trust him to work it out.

 

“Badger. But my friend Gideon is Badger and they’re his favourite animal so I can’t even be mad about it.”

 

“And you’re meant to be?”

 

“Mole.”

 

“And you’re refusing?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He holds Sherlock’s stare and refuses to back down. Sherlock sighs.

 

“Fair enough. Though as I -” he sighs “- _promised_ your mother, I am obliged to tell you that it will be _‘fun’_ and that _‘you’ll be the only one not taking part’_.”

 

“I don’t care.”

 

“Also you should consider that parents traditionally spoil their children after these sort of things and I’m sure you’ll miss out on ice-cream and presents if you decline.”

 

“How do you know? Were you in a school play?”

 

“God no. But parents are like that.”

 

“I still don’t care.”

 

Archie makes his move and for a while the game returns to normal. Eventually an opportunity comes up and, feeling bitter about the play harassment, Archie places ‘John’ onto the board.

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Names don’t count.”

 

“But things I want to talk about do, don’t they?” Archie raises a brow. He’s really good at raising his brow: he practiced.

 

“Why would you want to talk about John?”

 

Archie shrugs. “Because no one will tell me why Dr. Watson doesn’t live with Mary any more, or why he came to live here, or what happened to the baby. They all treat me like a kid and I figured you wouldn’t.”

 

For a long while after Archie finishes, Sherlock doesn’t say anything. His face is blank and still like he’s gone somewhere else. Archie fiddles with the tiles on the board, making them perfectly neat.

 

“John lived here before he married Mary. Now that he can’t live with Mary anymore he’s come back.”

 

“Why can’t he live with Mary anymore? They got married.”

 

Sherlock looks a bit annoyed. “Really Archie, you’re old enough to know that marriages don’t always last. Your parents were married.”

 

Archie shrugs. Mary and Dr. Watson’s wedding seemed different though; _he’d_ been there for a start. It didn’t seem possible that there could be all that fuss – he’d had to wear an _outfit_ \- only for people to start changing their minds. And Sherlock had been there too; he’d have known if something wasn’t right.

 

“Why didn’t it work out? What about the baby? I saw it!”

 

He’d only seen it once. His mum took him along a few days after Mary brought the baby home. It was wearing a yellow dress that reminded Archie of the wedding reception and he’d been surprised that Mary still had a bump even though the baby was gone. Mary had laughed really hard when he asked about it.

 

The baby hadn’t got any hair yet and they’d tried to hide it by giving her a headband with a bow on it. When he tried to pick her up she’d puked all over him.

 

“The baby…”

 

Sherlock pauses and Archie sees the look in his eyes, the _‘this is a grownup thing’_ look. He’d never thought Sherlock would give him that look, he’d always acted like he wasn’t a grownup and Archie suddenly wants to cry.

 

Sherlock wants to run around with John and isn’t interested in Archie’s kid stuff. He glares at the board game. Stupid. Babyish. GAME.

 

“The baby died, Archie. She died two months ago.”

 

Archie’s head snaps up. He doesn’t understand Sherlock’s expression, it’s sad and worried and nervous all at once. He looks like he’s afraid, too, of how Archie is going to act. Like his mum was when she had to tell him Grandpa died. And Grandpa was old and sick so it wasn’t even a big surprise.

 

“But I saw her! She was fine!”

 

“She was sick. No one could have known.” He says that last bit in a strange voice.

 

“But she was a baby!”

 

“Yes. And Mary… she couldn’t stay any more. She accepted a job far away. And John couldn’t stay either. That’s why he came back here.”

 

“Mum said you were taking Dr. Watson on loads of cases to cheer him up,” Archie says. His throat hurts a little and he doesn’t understand why. It’s not fair that he went to a wedding and everyone went on and on about how happy things were going to be and somehow this has been allowed to happen instead. The baby had been sick all over him. Maybe that had been a symptom. Maybe he should have noticed.

 

“He needed distracting,” Sherlock says quietly.

 

“I thought you didn’t want me around anymore; that I was too much of a kid!”

 

Sherlock tries to smile, but he still looks sad.

 

“You _are_ a kid Archie. I don’t mind that. But I was busy and I assumed that in a while you’d lose interest.”

 

“Why?”

 

Sherlock sighs. “Because you’re not as much like me as people assume. You like maggots and serial killers, but science and deduction don’t interest you very much. You’re clever but not brilliant. You’ve come out of your shell, as your mother puts it, and you’ve made friends your own age. Why on earth do you need me? In a while the murder stories will get boring, and now your mother has remarried she doesn’t need a babysitter as often.”

 

Archie doesn’t say anything. He sticks his hand into the bag of tiles and takes the three he’s owed. They click as he places them onto the tile rack and he tries to focus on his letters.

 

He feels so stupid. Sherlock had just been playing along at being his friend until he grew out of it. He wonders whether Sherlock knows about those times Archie imagined Sherlock was his dad. He knows that he isn’t and it’s just a joke his mum makes, but if he’d asked Sherlock to give a talk at school or… or bail him out of prison, Sherlock would have shown up. At least he’d thought he would.

 

It was a stupid fantasy because Archie has a real dad. It’s not his dad’s fault he newspaper he worked for got closed down and he’s been busy.

 

His dad loves him. His dad would be upset if Archie died. More upset than Sherlock.

 

Sherlock goes next (‘Burke’) but Archie already knows that story and goes straight ahead with his move. The game ends minutes later with Archie winning by adding ‘rumple’ onto the ‘d’ in ‘Fred’ (West.)

 

Sherlock probably let him win, but Archie doesn’t care because he has an excuse to leave now.

 

“Can you get my dad to come pick me up please?”

 

Sherlock is surprised and has to call his mother to check. There’s a series of phone calls (“Yes, he asked for him…”) but eventually his dad is on the way.

 

Sherlock looks increasingly nervous as they wait.

 

“Can I make you a… uh… coffee?”

 

“No thank you.”

 

The silence stretches on. Archie doesn’t mind; he’s good at silence.

 

“I might have some biscuits.”

 

Sherlock stands and goes to the kitchen before Archie can refuse. When he returns he hands an entire pack of unopened Ryvita to Archie.

 

“Sorry. All I could find.”

 

He takes his seat again.

 

Archie looks at the packet and then up at Sherlock. He’s not entirely sure where the question comes from, but he suddenly has to know.

 

“If I asked you to come to the school play, would you come?”

 

“Are you going to do the play?”

 

“Would you be there if I did?”

 

Sherlock opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

 

“If you invited me, yes.”

 

Archie nods once. He’s glad to know that Sherlock would have come and sat in the tiny school chairs and made faces at everything if Archie wanted him to.

 

But he’s not going to do it, and he doesn’t want Sherlock there.

 

Time stretches on and eventually there are footsteps and his dad is suddenly right there in the door. Archie jumps from his seat and rushes over to hug him.

 

He’s wearing a suit (navy blue) and he’s panting really hard, like he’s been running to get here. Archie hugs him a long time and his dad picks him up even though Archie’s too big to be carried now. His dad notices how heavy he is now and puts him down again.

 

“Archie what happened? Your mum said Sherlock Holmes was looking after you!” He looks over at Sherlock in alarm. “Are you ok? Are you hurt?”

 

“I’m fine-”

 

Sherlock walks over and holds out his hand to Archie’s dad. He’s wearing a scary fake smile.

 

“Archie’s perfectly fine. I’m his babysitter.”

 

 

\--

 

 

His dad isn’t too keen on sticking around and Archie doesn’t mind because he wants to go. They walk really fast until they are a long way from Baker Street and then they get McDonalds. Archie’s allowed ice-cream.

 

“You scared me!” Archie’s dad bumps his fist against his upper arm. “It’s not every day you get a call to say Sherlock Holmes has your son!”

 

Archie doesn’t say anything, he just looks at him.

 

His dad sighs. “Not this again, Archie. You seemed better at the wedding. Say _something_.”

 

Archie shrugs.

 

His dad leans back in his seat, looking frustrated.

 

“Not that it’s important, but I did run out on a big interview to collect you. I thought you could be hurt. It was an interview for the Mail; thank god they let me reschedule.”

 

“Mind you,” he says thoughtfully as he takes a bite of his burger, “they probably thought there was a good story in it!”

 

His dad isn’t good at Archie’s silences. His mum talks to fill them up, Laurence doesn’t mind them, Sherlock makes him want to talk… but his dad just asks questions and gets mad if Archie doesn’t answer them. It’s because he’s a journalist and likes to know things.

 

“Been over there a lot then?”

 

Nothing.

 

“You’re mum doesn’t mind? Seems a bit weird to me…”

 

Nothing.

 

“C’mon Arch.”

 

“Have you met Dr. Watson? Oh wait, yeah, you were at his wedding weren’t you. What was that like?”

 

Nothing. He’ll have to answer something soon.

 

“What did you talk about today then? Something’s made you gloomy. C’mon. One little word. I’ll have to take you back to your mum’s soon and then we probably won’t see each other for ages. You’re getting so tall now…”

 

“Would you be sad if I died?”

 

It’s a bit like the question about the play. It’s a reassurance that he needs.

 

His dad gapes. “Of course I would! Why would you even ask?”

 

Hot tears are suddenly spilling from nowhere and his throat is closing in. “Because the baby died. And Dr. Watson and Mary are sad and- and-“

 

His dad snatches up tissues and looks around nervously. “Hey, hey hey…”

 

“And Sherlock doesn’t care about me any more-”

 

“Shhh…” His dad wipes his cheeks with the tissues. “Hey don’t you worry. C’mon.”

 

He dumps the tissues onto the tray and takes hold of Archie’s shoulders. “Now you’re going to tell me everything that Mr. Holmes said to you, okay? It’ll make you feel better. And then,” he smiles reassuringly, “I’m getting you more ice cream.”

 

\--

**End of Chapter Two**

Recipe for Toad in the Hole 

 


	3. The Rat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews/kudos so far. Sorry for the little break between this chapter and the last: I suddenly had a social life.

For the most part, life goes on.

 

Archie’s _busy_ : he visits his friends’, he plays _Zombie Battleships_ a lot, and sees his nan (she doesn’t really understand _Zombie Battleships_.) Laurence teaches him how to play squash, his mum refuses to let him give up saxophone lessons, and he seems to spend _years_ hanging around the supermarket while the two of them argue about butter and whether ready-chopped carrots are a bad thing.

 

Kelvin - who is supposed to play Ratty in _The Wind and the Willows_ \- gets chicken pox and is off school for ages. Mrs. Jessop offers Archie the part, which he likes more than Mole. He gets to pretend to drink wine on stage and wear a boater, and Ratty says more words (no one believes that, but Archie’s _counted_ ) so that means it’s a better part. When he says this his mum hugs him hard because Archie doesn’t normally like saying lots of words.

 

He thinks about Sherlock sometimes. And Dr. Watson. And the baby. But he doesn’t back to 221b again because he doesn’t want to.

 

Except, as it turns out, Sherlock want to see _him_.

 

For some reason, it’s Archie’s dad who takes him. He is staying there for the weekend and it’s great because his dad has a new job and a new girlfriend and they buy him loads of stuff. They go to see the _Lion King_ and they go to The London Dungeon and they get ice-cream twice.

 

And then on Sunday his dad tells him they are going to a friend’s house and it isn’t until they are getting off the tube at Baker Street that Archie figures it out.

 

The moment they are outside the tube station his dad starts yelling.

 

_“Why are you acting like a child?!”_

 

He’s angry because Archie refused to get off the tube and had to be carried out and everyone stared at them. Archie’s sorry about that, but he doesn’t want to be _here._

 

“Sherlock invited you!” his dad snaps. “He called me and asked me to bring you!”

 

“You don’t even like him!” Archie shouts back.

 

“I do! I was just worried last time, that’s all. C’mon Archie, I know you don’t have many friends: I didn’t want to spoil things for you.”

 

Archie _does_ have friends. He’s been invited to four birthday parties already this year and two people wanted to sit with him on the bus to swimming.

 

They are in the way of the people coming out of the tube station so they have to move out of the way. Archie knows what a stupid kid he looks like, but he can’t help standing there with his arms petulantly crossed and glaring like all the anger inside is trying to come out through his eyes.

 

“Why does he want me to go there?”

 

His dad shrugs. “I dunno. Let’s find out, yeah? We can _detect_ the detective.”

 

He nudges Archie playfully, but Archie doesn’t think it’s very funny.

 

The walk to 221b seems to take forever. He tries to tell himself that he has nothing to be scared of; Sherlock invited him over so he can’t be mad. _Archie’s_ the one who’s mad. Sherlock wasn’t meant to be like all the others, he was meant to be on Archie’s side. All the time he was just pretending to be Archie’s friend to get him to do stuff; he got him to wear the suit, and talk more, and put up with Laurence. Every time his mum took Sherlock aside and Sherlock pretended not to care… he was listening the whole time.

 

His dad squeezes his hand and knocks. There is a wait and then the door opens and then he’s suddenly overwhelmed by purple; Mrs. Hudson (wearing violet) embraces him. Her perfume even _smells_ like purple, though it’s not flowery so he doesn’t know why.

 

They are ushered upstairs and Archie doesn’t feel like talking when Sherlock greets him. He sits in his usual chair though, and his dad takes a seat on the sofa.  The place is messier than normal: there’s more stuff. A brown jacket is hanging over the back of one of the wooden chairs, the table is covered in opened letters with ripped brown envelopes, and there’s an open book face down on the table next to Archie.

 

No one says anything until Mrs. Hudson comes in with tea and cakes. His dad takes both and looks around with open curiosity. Mrs. Hudson goes. Archie looks over at the clock, determined not to say anything. The second hand goes around three times before anyone says anything.

 

“I’d like to hear what you think about something Archie,” says Sherlock at last.

 

Archie shrugs.

 

“The newspaper on the sofa. Fetch it and turn to page sixteen. I realise you’re under a vow of silence, but I’d like you to read it aloud.”

 

Archie doesn’t like Sherlock’s tone. It’s not friendly, and for the first time he’s not so sure that Sherlock doesn’t hate him after all. Still, he stands and goes to the sofa where his dad has just noticed the newspaper and is frowning at it. Archie takes it, returns to his seat, and opens it at the right page. It’s floppy and awkward to hold up but he finds the article.

 

There’s a picture of Sherlock and Dr. Watson taking up about a quarter of the page. Sherlock is wearing the hat.

 

“Aloud, Archie.”

 

Archie blinks, but begins with the headline. “ _’HOLMES SWEET HOME._ ’”

 

He reads ahead and stops, looking questioningly at Sherlock. This isn’t a nice article.

 

“Carry on.”

 

“ _’Dead children, missing wives, Moriarty on the loose… is the great detective too busy playing house?_ ’”

 

His dad frowns. “I don’t know what sort of game you’re playing-”

 

“Please continue Archie.”

 

Archie looks helplessly between the impassive face of Sherlock and his dad’s annoyed one.

 

“ _’With the mys-terious appearance of James Moriarty holding the country hostage, it’s easy to assume that Sherlock Holmes is hot on his heels, yet visitors to John Watson’s blog can be forgiven for some confusion. The blog that lang- languished for months is now alight with new cases: yet not a single one mentions the menace known at one time as Richard Brook._

 

“ _’The duo have found missing diamonds, unmasked imposter princesses, and saved a cat from a cult, and yet the blog is as quiet about their personal lives as it is about the spectre of Moriarty. Watson is certainly keeping things professional, not deigning to respond to questions about his daughter‘s tragic death or his missing wife, and is equally quiet about his sudden reappearance at Baker Street._

 

_“’As a source close to Holmes reveals, Holmes is far from dis-distraught at the turn of events that have reunited him with his partner-in-fighting-crime.’”_

 

“Archie! Stop this!”

 

Archie’s dad stands up and yanks on his coat, but Sherlock ignores it.

 

“One more paragraph.”

 

Archie doesn’t want to continue reading it, it’s a nasty article. But he needs to know why Sherlock wants him to read it and if he leaves now he won’t ever know. Perhaps this is part of a mystery and Archie is somehow helping.

 

 _“’Sherlock has been trying to distract Dr. Watson by keeping him busy,’ says the source. One can’t help but wonder if Holmes, who abandoned his work to plan Watson’s wedding and went on a public downward spiral of drugs and-“_ Archie whispers this bit, _“-_ **sex** _during Watson’s honeymoon, isn’t a little bit relieved at the current state of affairs. With Mrs. Watson gone, no nappy duties to keep his partner away, and Watson back at Baker Street where he belongs, it’s no wonder that Moriarty is the very last thing on the detective’s mind.’”_

 

No one says anything for a little while. Archie drinks some of the orange squash Mrs. Hudson gave him. The open paper rests on his knees.

 

“You missed a bit,” Sherlock points out. “The journalist’s name.”

 

Archie picks up the paper again. The name of the journalist is in the corner. “Jacqueline Harper.”

 

“Mm,” is Sherlock’s only response.

 

Suddenly he seems to have forgotten about the paper. He stands up in a sudden burst of energy and begins rummaging through the papers on the desk.

 

“I must show you these photos Archie! The decomposition is excellent.”

 

He moves about looking for them and keeping up a distracted conversation.

 

“So you’re going to be in the play after all.”

 

“Did you deduce that?”

 

“ _Yep_. And you saw _the Lion King_ yesterday _:_ pity you had such poor seats-”

 

“They weren’t _too_ bad,” Archie says, with a loyal glance to his dad.

 

“Met your dad’s new girlfriend too. Red hair, listens to a lot of Elvis music, works as a vet… Jenny, I think she’s called?”

 

Archie smirks.

 

“No! She’s called Jacqui. And she’s a…”

 

Archie’s throat tightens up. He’s not sure if he doesn’t want to speak or whether he physically can’t.

 

Sherlock turns and fixes a dark smile, not on Archie, but on his dad.

 

“Sorry. My mistake. Jacqui! Of course. Jacqui the journalist! _I wonder where she works._ ”

 

“C’mon Archie, we’re going.” Archie’s dad stands and gestures to the door.

 

Archie doesn’t move. He looks between the two of them; Sherlock looks dangerous and his dad isn’t reacting at all.

 

“How does it feel to be quoted in a newspaper Archie?” Sherlock sneers.

 

“Don’t talk to my son in that tone!”

 

“Your son? Your _source_ you mean! That’s all he is to you!” Sherlock spins and grins at Archie, only it’s not really a grin, it’s a parody of one. “How does it feel to be a _source_ Archie? I bet your dad couldn’t wait to get you over here today could he? Did he talk you into it? Did he insist on staying in the hope of getting a scoop?”

 

“Stop it!” Archie snaps. He feels cornered. Sherlock is mad at him and his dad’s going to be angry too and he feels stupid for having ever talked about Sherlock in the first place. Hot tears roll down his face. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean-”

 

“You’re making him upset!” his dad snarls, brushing past Sherlock to crouch down in front of Archie. He grips Archie’s shoulders and talks at him with big pleading eyes. “Don’t listen Archie, I’m gonna explain everythi-“

 

“Leave me alone!”

 

Archie struggles free from the seat and his dad and lurches towards the kitchen door. He stands in the doorway looking between Sherlock and his dad and wanting them both to stay away.

 

“ _I’m_ not making him upset,” growls Sherlock. “You did this. You grasped at second hand stories from your own son out of greed. And maybe if I’d woken up early last week, if I’d read the paper first, you’d be better off. I’d have shredded the paper, or burned it, or maybe I’d have found hundreds of copies of the article and made you eat every last one of them…”

 

His dad turns to leave, but Sherlock is too quick. He grabs his dad’s coat and slams him against the wall.

 

“But _John_ got up first. John read that article. John carefully didn’t mention it for the rest of the day…”

 

Archie’s dad struggles. “What’re you going to do then?” he spits. “Kill me? Prove the rumours about you true?”

 

“No,” Sherlock says darkly. “ _I’m going to wipe you off the face of the earth. Every editor on the planet is going to delete your name from their contact lists, every colleague you ever had will cross the street to avoid you. Your name will be so dirty that even the most desperate z-lister would blanche before selling their story to you. And then I’m going to get every single thing you’ve ever written wiped from existence… from this article all the way back to the dirty limericks you left on bathroom walls in high school. I hope you enjoy John’s blog, because the internet is the only place you’ll have left… even so, I wouldn’t bother installing a hits counter.”_

 

Sherlock lets go and steps back to adjust his suit. He's breathing heavily with anger and his eyes are dark and alien. Archie blinks through the tears and sees his dad, head bowed, looking angry and broken all at once as he slumps against the wall.

 

“I want to go home,” he whispers.

 

His dad lifts his head. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Yeah, let’s go.”

 

Archie nods in relief and, after a slight hesitation, steps towards his father. The movement seems to startle Sherlock, as though he’d forgotten Archie was there.

 

“Archie, wait!”

 

He moves forward, but Archie backs away. “I’m sorry I said those things! I didn’t mean to make Dr. Watson sad…”

 

“No Archie- wait! No! You don’t think I’m mad at you do you?” Sherlock sounds surprised. “No! It’s fine! Sit down and have some more cake and squash – I think I might have some eyeballs too if you want – and you can tell me all about how excited you are that you’re going to be a big brother. I’m surprised you haven’t said anything about it yet-“

 

Archie is so shocked that he actually looks up. Sherlock’s whole face seems to have frozen and his eyes aren’t dark anymore; they’re wide and surprised.

 

“Oh. They haven’t told you about that yet.”

 

His dad steps forward and puts a hand on Archie’s shoulder.

 

“Mr. Holmes,” he says roughly. “From now on, do what you want with me, but _stay away_ from Archie.”

 

 

 

\--

 

"Stay still!"

  
  
Archie squirms anyway. His mum is attacking his face with eyeliner: drawing long whiskers across his cheeks and colouring in a dark spot on his nose. He feels stupid in the sky blue striped blazer and long tail that make up Ratty's costume.

  
  
Not that it will matter for long; the play will be over soon, when the curtain goes up and everyone realises Ratty isn't going to say anything...

  
  
His mum is worried, he knows. He hasn't said anything since the visit to Sherlock. She let him skip the last play rehearsal and gave up trying to get him to go over his lines.

  
  
She smoothes his hair, adjusts his hat, and then leans back to look him over. She smiles in a sort of sad way.

  
  
"I'm so _proud of you_ Archie. I really am. And Laurence is. And your dad."

  
  
His dad isn't here though, Archie thinks. Not that Archie wanted him there, but his mum seems to have bought loads of tickets. Laurence, his nan, Auntie Julie, Uncle Rowan, and his cousin Beccah are already sitting in their seats, waiting for a performance that isn't going to happen.

  
  
"I know you must be angry about the baby..."

  
  
She swallows and looks down at the tiny bump that Archie wouldn't have noticed if he didn't know what it was.

  
  
He isn't angry about the baby, he's angry that no one told him, angry about those secret conversations that his mum must have had with Laurence about it, angry that she probably went to the doctors and then picked him up from school like normal, angry that she told everyone else first even though it's always been just the two of them. 

  
  
He's angry that his dad used him and made up horrible things about Sherlock, he's angry that Sherlock was so horrible to his dad, angry that Sherlock treats him like a kid, and that now everyone looks worried around him, and angry that he overheard Uncle Rowan suggest that he needs therapy because he won't talk...

  
  
"I'm not," he says, because the baby is just about the only person he isn't mad at.

  
  
He says it because he's not going to talk again for a long time afterwards; not while the teachers yell at him for spoiling the play, or while his family are cross and worried about him and talk and shout over each other in the taxi home, and even when he does talk again, he's never going to say anything to his dad or Sherlock again.

  
  
"Oh, Archie!" She beams and pulls him into a tight hug that knocks his hat askew.

  
  
He struggles to free himself and she allows herself to be shooed away to take a seat in the audience.

  
  
No one pays much attention to him. All around Archie children are being herded into position for the first scene but he isn't in that one so he's able to slip into the quiet corridor outside the hall. Inside, the school orchestra starts up and there's a round of applause.

 

Archie heads away down the stairs and sits at the bottom, in earshot of, but out of view from anyone who comes searching for him.

  
"I think you're making a wise decision by avoiding this mess."

  
  
Archie jumps. There are a few people about but he's been ignoring them, and he's a kid in a costume (and not the one they've come to see), so he's part of the background to the adults. This man is standing at the bottom of the stairs as though he's actually been looking for Archie.

  
  
Archie says nothing.

  
  
"You have about five minutes before they realise you're missing."

  
  
Archie shrugs.

  
  
"You are, in fact, doing me a favour. I promised to sit through this production. Thanks to you I keep my promise without having to actually go through with it."

  
  
Archie raises his eyebrows. "It's already started, so you've broken the promise already."

  
  
The man adjusts the position of the umbrella he's been leaning on.

  
  
"Oh no. I only agreed to watch the parts with you in it. Sherlock wasn't cruel enough to inflict the entire thing on me. I must thank you, by the way, I do enjoy having him owe me."

  
  
The mention of Sherlock's name causes Archie to freeze.

  
  
"You're not allowed to be here," Archie says quickly.

  
  
"Actually, I am," says the man. He reaches behind the lapel of his coat and retrieves one of the pale green tickets for the show. "Your mother sent Sherlock a ticket. Sherlock felt his presence wouldn't be welcomed by you."

  
  
"Who are you?" Archie asks. "His Dad?"

  
  
The man blanches. "His _brother_. No wonder he likes you so much."

  
  
"No he doesn't. He hates me because I told my dad stuff and I hate him because he was nasty to my dad and even if he deserved it…”

  
  
"...he's still your father?"

  
  
Archie nods.

 

“I’m afraid that my brother has a nasty habit of letting his own emotions get in the way of understanding the feelings of others. It never occurred to him that you’d be anything but on his side. He suggested to me that it might not have been his finest hour: trust me when I tell you that it takes a lot to get him to admit that."

 

Archie doesn’t respond, because he’s still not sure how he feels. His stomach churns with anger and worry every time Sherlock’s name is mentioned.

 

“He never said he had a brother," he says at last.

  
  
"Well - as you will soon learn - sibling relationships can be difficult."

  
  
Archie swallows and thinks of the baby. One day soon it’s going to be his brother or sister, which doesn't seem possible right now.

  
  
"Why did Sherlock send you?"

  
  
"Because my brother is... sentimental. He wanted to be here for you but knew that you didn’t want him to be. He also feared you might be panicking about the baby and, for some bizarre reason, he felt I was qualified to advise you on matters of elder-brotherhood."

 

Archie doesn’t know how to begin to explain how he feels. Sitting on this step, in front of this stranger, it seems impossible to unravel the knot of terror and confusion that’s been sitting on his chest since that day.

 

“I can’t promise you that the baby will be healthy and well, but I will say this; there’s every chance it will be. Being a big brother is going to change everything and this sibling will be the source of headaches, embarrassment, and worry for years to come.”

 

He holds up a hand before Archie can reply.

 

“Take comfort in this though; firstly this brother or sister can in no way cause as much trouble for you as Sherlock has for me. Secondly there will be an enjoyable period of about five years in which you will, for all intents and purposes, be _God_ to that child. Whatever you tell them they will believe unquestioningly.” He smirks. “I once convinced Sherlock that every Russian had to own one pedigree cat and one mongrel dog by law. He believed it until he was seventeen.”

 

Sherlock’s brother looks faraway for a moment and he sighs.

 

“While I would personally recommend against involving yourself in Sherlock’s life, I did promise to pass on a message, so here it is. If you ever need his help, his friendship, or – _god forbid_ – his advice, then you are always welcome at 221b.”

 

Archie nods.

 

He won’t need Sherlock again. He didn’t really need him before. He would have worn the suit, and talked more, and made friends, and done the play all without Sherlock. He’d have been ok about Laurence, his dad, and the baby in the end.

 

But it was nice to know that Sherlock cared enough to try and help anyway.

 

“It’s ok,” he says slowly. “I probably won’t need him again. But- um- please tell him… thanks.”

  
  
“Archie?!”

 

It’s Mrs. Jessop; she’s looking for him.

 

“And I’m going to do the play,” he says. “And you have to watch, right?”

 

End of Chapter Three

  
[Cheese Scone Recipe](http://www.bbcgoodfood.com/recipes/8877/cheese-scones) (For Picnics with Ratty)

[Bonus Picture of Mark Gatiss AS Ratty](http://media-cache-ak1.pinimg.com/550x/6c/e6/92/6ce6921f167b1c0a0117d8134627f9e7.jpg)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s still more to come (more Sherlock/John too!)
> 
> For the record, I've written Archie's selective muteness as a form of rebellion and a way of controlling the grownups around him. I'm aware that this doesn't reflect selective muteness in all children.


	4. The Empire State Building

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for the long delay. I suddenly had a social life, and a birthday, and a holiday, and then the chapter got long and difficult. But I’m still going! I’m so grateful for all the attention my fics have had lately, so thank you all very much.

Archie chooses the top of the Empire State Building because of Sherlock. He is taking a somewhat teenage, over-dramatic reading of Sherlock’s advice – granted - but the core of the plan is down to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock said somewhere private and familiar, and while the viewing platform of the Empire State Building may not follow that advice to the _letter_ , Archie is very confident in the narrative principle of hiding in plain sight. Surely the best place for a private conversation is surrounded by unseeing, uncaring tourists whose only interest is getting the perfect selfie?

 

Even better, the Empire State Building is personal. The 2005 version of King Kong may not have been the critics’ favourite, but Archie had loved that film when he was very little and he and his dad sat through it more times than he can count. The first thing his dad suggested when he invited Archie to visit him in New York was that they went to the Empire State Building together.

 

Most of all, Archie is fifteen. He’s smart enough to recognise the significance of this event. It’s a day that will become part of who he is. If that’s the case, then he doesn’t want it to be cliché. When he tells this story in the future, he wants the first reaction of whoever’s listening to be ‘that’s fucking epic!’

 

It’s a loose reading of half-arsed advice and as a result the stupidity inherent in this plan is obvious to even the most casual observer:

 

1.  Being surrounded by tourists with cameras (most of whom do actually speak English) is not privacy.

2.  Associating a huge life moment with a beloved film gives you a fifty-fifty chance of making it an un-beloved film very quickly.

3.  Cliches are, in their own way, a form of safety. Fifteen year olds dealing with complicated emotions do not need to start making risky location choices on top of everything else.

4\. Sherlock is the last person on earth to seek out for advice of family communication.

 

Archie doesn’t know that yet though. He’s full of pretzel and cheesecake and loaded down with gift-shop purchases. They are watching the tourist information video as they ride up to the top.

Besides, it’s _Sherlock’s_ plan. What can go wrong?

 

 

\--

 

Eighteen Months Previously

 

 

Archie’s sister is called Lottie. She’s four now, with blonde curly hair and Laurence’s pointed nose. They tried not to enforce gendered colours on her – the nursery was yellow and green – but she turned out to be obsessed with pink and purple anyway. His mum has often bemoaned this, because she was great at playing Knights and Zombies with Archie, but teddy bear picnics are new territory indeed.

 

He loves her a lot (obviously) but she is annoying just about all of the time. She never wants to go to bed, and she has tantrums over tiny things, and she wants to play when he’s trying to do his homework.

 

And she asks never-ending questions, like now, when he is waiting for dinner and trying to look normal and unconcerned.

 

“Whassamatter Arch?”

 

They are at the table in the kitchen. His mum is pottering around cooking dinner and Laurence is helping but mainly getting distracted by the film showing on the kitchen telly. Archie is trying to read.

 

“Nothing’s the matter!” he mutters. He bends his head over his book, shielding his eyes from any distractions.

 

There’s a gentle tugging at his sleeve. Then a sharp jab to his ribs.

 

“Whassamatter? Arch? Arch? Arch? Arch? Whas-?”

 

His temper is always close to the surface these days, and he’s yelling without really understanding why.

 

“NOTHING!”

 

He forces his chair back, gets up, and stomps out of the kitchen. He leaves the stunned expressions of Laurence and his mum behind him, and barely gets one foot on the stairs before he hears Lottie’s shriek at the injustice of having a mean big brother.

 

He’s not hungry anyway.

 

He gets to his room, slams the door, and throws himself onto the bed.

 

What’s he going to do?

 

It’s been a week now. A week of hell. And it’s the summer holidays; he’s only had his family to face so far. What’s going to happen when he goes back to school? What if everyone finds out?

 

Archie feels stupid for not having realised before this week, but it honestly never occurred to him. It was all so… new. He’d been so wrapped up in the sensations that he never paid much attention to the thoughts drifting through his head.

 

Then, last week, he was sitting watching TV with Laurence when something sparked off the thought in his head.

 

In all those brief, desperate little fantasies, he’d never once thought about _girls._

 

Which meant…

 

“Archie?”

 

It’s his mum. She’s talking through the door.

 

“WHAT?!” he yells.

 

A sigh. “Have you gone all teenager on me again?”

 

Is there anything more horrible to say to a thirteen year old?

 

Archie stands up and stamps across the room as loudly as he can. The wardrobe doors rattle with his footsteps. He flicks on the TV and turns it up so loud that it almost hurts.

 

That should make it clear that he doesn’t want to be disturbed.

 

He throws himself back down on the bed and stares, unseeing at the TV. She can’t see him, but if she did, his mother would find him curled up on the bed seemingly fascinated by the rolling news channel.

 

“-Today the court was told of Sherlock Holmes’ involvement in the case. Julie Ford consulted the detective after-”

 

The name catches Archie’s attention. The man himself isn’t on the screen (it’s just a reporter in front of the court) but the name is enough to take him back.

 

He hasn’t seen Sherlock since the day of the fight between Sherlock and Archie’s dad. Hasn’t heard from him since that strange message left at the play. Mum isn’t friends with John anymore, but she’s philosophical about it.

 

“Friends drift apart, especially when relationships change. I still like John but we’ve nothing in common without Mary. Best to take these things as they come Archie.”

 

He’s seen him in the papers and on the news though.

 

The idea occurs to him that maybe Sherlock would know what to do, or at least could give him some advice. Archie’s not a hundred percent on whatever it is Sherlock, uh, went through, but he must be a better person to ask than his mum, or Laurence, or his dad…

 

Not that he’d ever ask his dad anyway. He’s in New York now, New York being big enough that there were a few tendrils of the media that Sherlock had no control over. It’s still only a really low level job, but he seems happy with it and Archie is going to go to New York to see him one day.

 

He’s old enough to know that if he is… what he thinks… then Sherlock can’t fix him. But Sherlock would know how to make everyone else be ok about it. Or at least help no one notice for a long time, maybe even ever.

 

\--

 

Six Months Previously

 

 

Sherlock is looking for a tutor. Not for himself – obviously - in fact not for anyone at all. He is currently on a tutor advertising site posing as an overworked mum with a teenage son who is failing mathematics. He’s picking through the shambles of low level ability, badly spelled advertisements, and general mess of desperate teachers trying to scrape enough money together for a overpriced summer holiday.

 

“How do you know Mitchell’s going to be on there?” John asks.

 

Kieran Mitchell is not, in himself, a suspect. He is in fact a bright engineering student trying to earn some money towards a gap year, and his top marks in A Level maths and physics make him a better prospect then many of the other so-called-tutors on here.

 

If it weren’t for the fact that his last two pupils (both in their teens) ended up in hospital after taking painkiller overdoses they had vehemently denied once recovered, Kieran Mitchell would hold no interest whatsoever.

 

Sherlock has at this point pretty much worked it out and is only confirming his theory (Mitchell’s mother, smuggling, not particularly interesting, but neat in its own way.)

 

He hasn’t told John because Sherlock long ago calculated the perfect moment to explain his deductions to receive maximum approval. Too early and John reacts like an audience member who has been shown the ridiculously simple mechanism behind an impressive trick and feels a bit conned.)

 

All he needs to do now is contact Mitchell, show interest, and ask for references. Mitchell will have heard about his last students and won’t risk giving the new client their contact details. He’ll give another, older one, not knowing that the same fate almost certainly befell them too. With the connection established Sherlock can text Lestrade and have the mother arrested. Then there will be time to explain everything to John…

 

“Sherlock! Look who’s here!”

 

Sherlock, lost in the internet chat room, jerks away from the screen. John has been flicking through the newspaper on his tablet but stretches and tries to make himself more alert as a beaming Mrs. Hudson leads a teenage boy into the room. She clasps her hands together in delight.

 

“I didn’t recognise you when I opened the door! Look how much you’ve grown!”

 

Sherlock freezes.

 

It’s Archie.

 

His first instinct is to glance over at John. He’s is stronger now, the raw emotional wound is covered in scar tissue, but Sherlock is always conscious of the danger.

 

A reminder of the wedding is somehow worse than a reminder of the baby. The baby is gone, finished business, but Mary is still out there. She’s a wound that John can never heal and Sherlock is alert for any sign of her return. He tells himself that the sharp spike in his stomach isn’t fear.

 

Thankfully he doesn’t have anything to be fearful of. Archie isn’t hiding Mary and John seems surprised but perfectly at ease. He stands, shakes Archie’s hand, and Archie’s growth and height (both average for his age) are complemented again.

 

Teenagers are often hard to read, trying on new identities like outfits, but Sherlock has enough to go on to tell him all he needs to know about Archie’s current life;

 

Sister                 Had filling (2) days ago              Father in New York

 

Ditched friends to come here        Mother considering third child

 

Worried                          Played football (2) hours ago

 

Writes stories                           Not sleeping                                    Popular

 

 

“Hello Archie,” he says.

 

Sherlock’s not one to bother with social awkwardness but this feels like a strange sort of consultation, because that’s what it must be for Archie to come here after all this time. Their friendship came to a natural conclusion, Archie would only be here if he felt himself under threat in some way.

 

Mrs. Hudson bustles off to make tea, Archie takes a seat on the sofa, and they sit in silence. He’s not ready to say whatever he’s here for in front of Mrs. Hudson or – judging by the way his eyes keep flickering at John – in front of anyone but Sherlock.

 

John is not oblivious to this either. He’s much better at understanding these situations, probably has been planning a discreet exit since Archie first looked around the room.

 

He coughs and stands.

 

“Well, uh, I was just about to pop to the shop for some washing up liquid.”

 

“There’s half a bottle left!” Mrs. Hudson calls helpfully from the kitchen.

 

John glances at Sherlock and Sherlock is quick to help.

 

“Don’t touch that bottle!” he snaps.

 

“What have you done to it?!”

 

“You don’t want to know. John seems to think we can’t live without more though.” He smirks at John. “Get biscuits too.”

 

Archie does nothing but watch in mild interest as John stands and leaves. Mrs. Hudson looks set to take John’s seat, but Sherlock makes a comment about some imagined experiment on her Sky Plus and she rushes downstairs in a panic to check that her programs are still going to record.

 

Archie and Sherlock are alone.

 

“Sooo…” Sherlock throws his head back. “You’re here to consult me.”

 

Archie gives a half shrug.

 

“You really are a teenager aren’t you?”

 

A full shrug this time.

 

“You said I could come here if I needed to.”

 

His voice has broken. Logically Sherlock knew that must be the case but it doesn’t seem possible that Archie, who is fixed in one time and place forever in his memory, has been allowed to age and grow along with everyone else. His presence makes the passing time more noticeable and Sherlock replays the last few minutes in his head taking in the everyday things that slip past his deductions – the frailness of Mrs. Hudson’s hands, John’s slight squint as he reads (it will take him another six months before he actually admits to needing an eye test), even Sherlock has too many grey hairs to delete the memory of every one he finds.

 

“I was telling the truth. If you need help then I’m at your disposal.”

 

Archie nods and looks down at his lap. No request for help is forthcoming, but Sherlock has had plenty of clients take things that way and in this case he is disposed to be patient. He turns back to the chat room while Archie builds up to whatever it is he’s going to say.

 

Sherlock hasn’t noticed anything amiss but who knows why teenagers consult detectives? At least with Archie it’s probably going to be more interesting than a missing smartphone.

 

Aha!

 

This profile looks promising and the tutor is online now. He opens up a new message and types a quick introduction. His son is in danger of moving down a set in maths and needs urgent tutoring.

 

“Archie, what are you bad at in maths?”

 

Archie shrugs. “Graphs.”

 

“What else?”

 

“Probability.”

 

Sherlock hums and types. Message sent, he refocuses his attention on Archie.

 

“Neither John or Mrs. Hudson will be gone forever. If you want to tell me in private, I suggest you tell me now.”

 

“I thought you’d already know,” Archie says.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I am a little busy with a case. Besides, teenagers are difficult to predict.”

 

“Oh.”

Archie is still not forthcoming. Sherlock drags his attention away from the case and focuses on the little mystery sitting in front of him. Could Archie be somehow tied up in this business with the tutor? It seems unlikely. Sherlock doesn’t know enough about teenagers to begin to guess what mysteries they may have in their lives. Teenagers were always incredibly boring to him, as they have lost the imagination of childhood and have not yet developed the uniqueness that makes a rare few adults bearable.

 

“Are you actually planning on talking about it?” he asks in frustration, when three whole silent minutes have gone by.

 

“Mr. Holmes…”Archie begins. Reverting back to childhood naming patterns, a sure sign of discomfort. “How did you… what was it like when…”

 

“When what?” he asks.

 

He briefly worries that he might be asked about the sexual arts, which he has absolutely no desire to talk about and he decides that should the conversation go in that direction then even John would understand Sherlock kicking Archie out…

 

“When what?”

 

“When you told people… you were… you know…”

 

For once Sherlock doesn’t know.

 

“When I told people that I was what?”

 

Even before he’s finished the sentence the structure of it clicks into place and the word that Archie is carefully not saying appears in the room in bold white fond in size eighteen font.

 

“When I told people I was …” he can’t quite finish the sentence himself because, in all honesty, he hasn’t.

 

This conversation is going to take a path Sherlock would like very much to avoid, but he promised Archie he would be here for him and he fully intends on keeping the promise. Besides it’s hard not to look at Archie and not see the aching vulnerability.

 

Three possibilities present themselves now. He could tell Archie that he’s not gay. He could tell Archie the truth, that he is… different… but he’s never had that conversation with anyone, or he could continue allowing Archie his belief that Sherlock Holmes is out.

 

He certainly isn’t in the closet, or out of it… the metaphor of the closet just doesn’t apply. The fact is that while ‘ _yes some of my sexual urges ad romantic attachments do not fit the heteronormative pattern, my lifestyle and personality have allowed me to sidestep the issue with varying degrees of success’_ might be a factually correct answer, what Archie needs to hear is that someone he knows has been in this situation and survived.

 

“I take it you’re… you’re pretty certain?” Sherlock credits Archie with that at least. Teenage boys don’t seek out vague acquaintances to ask about deeply personal sexual identity questions if they are only a little bit worried

 

Archie nods.

 

“I don’t want you to help me with…” he swallows. “It’s been a year and a half since I worked it out and I hate this secret. I want to be brave.”

 

The respect shines in Archie’s eyes. Archie thinks that he’s someone to be respected.

 

“You want help… telling everyone?”

 

“You’ll know what to do and say to make them understand. I don’t think mum will be mad but I don’t want everyone to be weird.”

 

“Have you met someone?” Sherlock asks.

 

Archie scowls and mutters “It’s not about that.” Which is a sure sign he has.

 

Sherlock sighs. He is very much aware that John will be returning at any moment and that Mrs. Hudson might also reappear. This is not a conversation he wants them to overhear. While John would say nothing at all while Archie was here, or even afterwards, at some time tonight he’d clear his throat and ask a curious question, _the_ question, as though he’d only just thought of it.

 

After all these years Sherlock thinks one honest question might be enough to break him down and unleash confessions and longings that he doesn’t think of and can’t even acknowledge he has.

 

“Start with the person you don’t want to tell first” Sherlock improvises. “When that one is done it’s easier to tell the people you think will take it well. Choose a location you’re both comfortable with, somewhere private, don’t turn it into a soap opera. Just tell them the simple truth, the one sentence is enough, and take it from there.”

 

Sherlock can see the identity of the first person in Archie’s face. The father. The man is currently licking his wounds in New York and not earning anywhere near enough to live comfortably.

 

“Yes,” he smiles, glad to be back in the easier role of omnipotent genius, “your father might be a good place to start.”

 

 

\--

 

 

It’s freezing on top of the Empire State Building. Archie’s not sure what he expected, but his hands are red and stinging. He feels caged in, the fence around the edge curves inwards claustrophobically to prevent both accidental and purposeful falls, and as a result the possibility of falling is kept fresh in the mind.

 

There are lots of tourists trying to get good photos and even though there’s plenty of space at the edge Archie and his dad keep being jostled out of the way. It’s not the perfect place for any sort of talking other that _‘oh look at that!’_ or _‘imagine if we dropped something over the side!’_

 

But Archie has been planning this for weeks. Ever since Sherlock suggested it. Archie planned for this to be the moment and it’s too late to change the plan; he has no idea what he’d change the plan to now anyway.

 

He and his dad stand side by side looking out across the city. Archie fixes his eyes straight ahead, determined, and takes a deep breath.

 

“Dad?”

 

“Yeah?” His dad is distracted. “Oh look over there. I’ve been in that building. The place I work at is just a few blocks away.”

 

Archie knows this already.

 

“Dad I’ve got something to tell you.”

 

Short and quick, Sherlock said. Like ripping off a plaster.

 

His dad is a bit homophobic, in that way that lots of adults are. Like… he’d work in an office with a gay person, but he’d still make jokes about gay people when they weren’t there and if you talked about two men kissing he’d make a face and shudder. That has to be a good sign, right? Because he’s not really a hater, he just needs to come ‘round to the idea.

 

And after this, telling his mum (who has lots of gay friends) and Laurence (who always conscientiously says _‘partner’_ when asking if a new acquaintance has a relationship) will be easy.

 

Archie has imagined many different ways for this conversation to go. He’s fantasised of long, impressive speeches, and he’s thought of just blurting it out, or rambling along about the subject until his dad got the idea… he even considered write it on a note and simply passing it over.

 

None seem right. He thinks he might have to settle for the cliché: awkwardly building up to it with the immortal words ‘ _Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.’_

 

Archie wants to say it. He stares out across the city and tries to make his mouth say the words.

 

He’s going to say it… now.

 

 

 

“Everything ok Arch?”

 

His dad must have noticed the internal struggle going on.

 

Like a plaster. That’s how he has to do this.

 

“No. I mean, yes. I am. But I have to tell you. I’m gay.”

 

There are very few of his imaginings that dealt with the subject quite so briskly. But he needed to get it out and oh boy is it out there.

 

His dad frowns as if he hasn’t quite registered the words yet. Around them several tourists are gaping at him, with various levels of subtlety. He had to say it loudly because it’s surprisingly noisy up here. One woman is trying to take a not so subtle photo of him and he imagines that there’s probably someone tweeting about it already. For years to come, when these people talk of the time they visited the Empire State Building they are going to have this little story to tell their friends about what they overheard up there.

 

He wishes he’d thought of that: a memorable place makes even the most mundane conversation memorable to the people up there.

 

It’s a long way back down to the bottom.

 

The hours that follow are pretty miserable. His dad rushes them home and shuts the curtains like he’s afraid of anyone seeing. He smiles a lot, nervously, and rushes to get Archie a drink and snack to make sure he’s comfortable.

 

The questions that follow are predictable but Archie makes it clear that yes he’s sure, and at the end of the day, there’s nothing his dad can do but smile and embrace him and tell him he loves him.

 

Which would be fine if Archie believed it for a second. He stays awake that night, waiting for the phone call his dad is almost certainly going to make to his mother.

 

“What am I going to do?” his dad hisses.

 

His dad has already told his mum even though Archie asked him not to. His dad has robbed him of the chance to tell his mum; even worse Archie will still have to tell her but until he does they’ll have to pretend that she doesn’t know about it

 

He’s under quite a lot of emotional stress. It’s completely natural that he blames Sherlock.

 

 

\--

 

 

It takes a long time before Archie is able to see Sherlock again. For a start he has to wait until the visit is over and he flies back to the UK. This means two more weeks of his summer holiday spent hanging around his dad's apartment while his dad works (his dad swore he'd make some time, but jumps at any chance to leave.)

 

Archie isn't angry, not really. He's been steadily let down by him for most of Archie's life. He's angry at Sherlock for raising his expectations. Sherlock had said it would all be ok, and Archie had allowed himself to believe it. He'd hoped that this might even be the thing that made his dad sit up and take notice of him, realise that he has to be a bigger part of Archie's life or he'll miss out on so much...

Archie's going to go home and he might not see his dad again for years and he's just handed his dad another excuse to not make an effort.

 

And Sherlock told him to.

 

He should have enjoyed this time, he should have enjoyed his holiday and told his dad in a while, over the phone. Yeah the reaction would have been the same, but he'd have had good memories and he wouldn't face a nine hour flight home knowing full well that the smiles upon his return will be just a touch *too* innocent.

 

And they are. Laurence has always been a bad liar and dislikes false situations. This means that Laurence keeps encouraging him, apropos of nothing, to have a talk with his mother. This leads to hissed arguments in the kitchen as his mother insists that Archie will tell her when he's ready. Her smile gets more brittle every day.

 

At least his sister doesn't seem to know or care.

 

Even when he's home he still can't see Sherlock because he doesn't want his mum knowing he's in contact with him again. She'd probably be upset he'd told Sherlock before her.

 

Eventually he’s back at school and he ditches the last lesson of the day on the basis that he’s never done it before, will never do it again, and that if the teachers phone home his mum will be very understanding because of the difficult time he’s going through. By the time he gets to Baker Street it’s five minutes past three in the afternoon.

 

Mrs. Hudson looks ill when she answers the door.

 

“Oh! Oh it’s you Archie!”

 

“Can I see Sherlock?”

 

She grimaces apologetically. “He’s not here my love. You might want to try again tomorrow. I’m afraid things are very busy here…”

 

Archie barely has time to grab the door before it closes on him.

 

“Please!” he hisses. “I need to see him really desperately. I can wait.”

 

For a second she looks distraught, but the look is hidden quickly.

 

“No Archie I can’t let you-“

 

“I’ll just stand out here until he does get back,” Archie threatens. “The only difference is if I wait inside or outside.”

 

Mrs. Hudson looks back at the stairs and then twists her hands.

 

“Oh very well. Though lord knows you aren’t going to get much out of him when he gets home…”

 

She ushers him through an up the stairs, but unusually she doesn’t follow him up herself. Archie rounds the corner on the stairs and is about to step inside when he’s sees the figure at the window.

 

His gasp makes her turn.

 

He may have only been a kid when he last saw her, and she may be thinner and with darker hair, but Archie has seen pictures and has a good memory.

 

It’s Mary. Mary is back.

 


	5. Out of the Loop

 

Mary hears his footsteps and turns. For a fleeting second she looks braced for battle, but her face blanks when she sees Archie.

 

“Dear god Sherlock, what happened? You used to be so tall.”

 

It’s a sarcastic voice and not very nice, but Archie shrugs it off. He’s too shocked at her presence to care about what sort of mood she’s in.

 

He steps closer into the room like a zookeeper approaching an escaped Lion. “It’s Archie. Do you remember me?”

 

Mary blinks slowly.

 

“From the wedding?”

 

He nods.

 

She laughs. It’s slightly hysterical.

 

“Wow. This _is_ a blast from the past. The universe really wants to stick the knife in. What are you doing here?” She holds up her hands before he can ask the obvious question. “And yes, you could say the same thing about me, but I have an excuse. You are definitely out of place. Sherlock doesn’t normally keep hangers on. Oh who am I kidding? He _loves_ hangers on. Why you though?”

 

Archie shrugs. “He never quite shook me off. I’m here to yell at him for being a prick.”

 

Mary nods as if that is completely fair enough.

 

“What are you here for?” Archie asks because it’s the only question that really matters.

 

Mary reaches into her red coat pocket. It’s shabby and misshapen Archie notes. A bit like her; her roots are growing in, her nails are chipped, and her shoes are almost worn through. She looks tired and dirty.

 

Archie stops noticing all that stuff very quickly though because when that one hand disappears into the pocket, it returns again with the last thing that Archie ever expected.

 

It’s a gun.

 

“I’m here to make a pact,” Mary explains.

 

\--

 

Time passes and Archie continues to breathe in and out while all of his attention is focused on the gun in front of him.

 

He has never seen one in real life and even though he would have assumed that years of video games and action movies would numb him to it, even though he’s fairly certain Mary wouldn’t shoot him, it’s more terrifying that he could ever have thought. It sucks up all your attention and seems to thrive on fear.

 

She doesn’t turn it on him though. She casually pockets it again and turns back to the window.

 

“It doesn’t concern you Archie. Go. Sherlock will be home soon and I need all of his attention.”

 

Archie shrugs, trying desperately to be brave. “I’m not going to go. If you’re going to shoot Sherlock I want to see him first. I need to yell at him before you can kill him.”

 

Mary actually laughs. “Oh don’t worry, killing Sherlock is the very last thing on my mind. He will be just fine to be nagged by you another day.”

 

“Well I’ll wait anyway,” says Archie.

 

He has no idea why he is so determined to stay around her. She’s looks dangerous and he can only assume it’s the sheer insanity of seeing Mary, lovely Mary who didn’t even get mad when he accidentally called her fat after she had the baby, holding a gun and acting like she wasn’t bothered by it at all. He doesn’t want her to hurt anyone. He can’t believe she could hurt anyone.

 

But the gun.

 

“Where did you get that thing?” he asks eventually.

 

Mary shrugs. “John was always terrible at hiding it. Even after all these years… took me less than two minutes. And that was only because they’ve had a new kitchen fitted since I was last here.” She laughs again, slightly wildly. “God. It doesn’t seem possible. John has been here the whole time, thinking about bills and picking out new kitchens… I know how Sherlock felt now when he came back with a stupid French accent and realised everything had gone to _merde_.”

 

Archie doesn’t understand any of this but he nods mildly anyway. He glances behind him and she’s right, it is a different kitchen.

 

She takes a seat on the sofa. Archie wanders over to the red chair that he used to sit in when he visited here. It’s still just the same, just a little more worn.

 

“Mum will be pleased you’re back,” he says, for something to say.

 

Mary looks like she has long ago forgotten about Archie’s mum.

 

“ _Anna_ wasn’t it?” She breathes out. “How’s, er, _Laurence_?”

 

Archie’s surprised she remembers Laurence too. Laurence isn’t very memorable.

 

“He’s fine. I used to hate him, but he turned out to be ok in the end.”

 

Mary nods disinterestedly.

 

“Sherlock helped with that,” Archie says. “Sherlock helped with a lot actually. He got most of it wrong in the end, but he tried to be there for me even though he was completely rubbish at it.”

 

“A mini him,” says Mary. “He must have loved that.”

 

Archie shrug. “Not really. I don’t look like him much, and I’m not as clever, or as uptight and I like gory stuff but I grew out of the morbid fascination thing.”

 

They go quiet and Archie voices the thing he has to say, because he’d feel bad if he didn’t. “I was sorry about the baby.”

 

She swallows. “Thank you.“

 

That seems to be all she is going to say on the subject and the silence stretches out between them. Realistically Archie knows that the second Sherlock and John walk through that door he’s as good as invisible, but Mary has the gun and he doesn’t want to just leave her. He wants to know what she’s doing with it, why John had it in the first place, and what all this secret grownup talk means…

 

“What about what John comes back?” Archie prods. “Won’t he be annoyed that you have the gun?”

 

“He won’t be coming back,” Mary says without even looking at Archie. Her eyes are fixed on the door but his silence must catch her attention a little. “Don’t worry. He’s not coming back _soon_. He’s fine. I just arranged a little distraction. John will be held up, giving me enough time to talk to Sherlock alone.”

 

“Don’t you want to see John?”

 

“Not yet,” Mary grits her teeth. “Sherlock and I need to hash a few things out. I need to repay a debt. The gun is just… a symbol of that debt.”

 

Archie is completely at a loss. “Is that why you came back? To repay the debt?”

 

Mary swallows. “I owe John an apology and I owe Sherlock a debt.”

 

“What for?”

 

“You ask a lot of questions,” she snaps.

 

Archie shrugs. “My dad’s a journalist. And an idiot. I get it all from him.”

 

She laughs and he presses this tiny advantage. “I can’t see why seeing Sherlock is more important than seeing John.”

 

“Yes well,” Mary sighs, “being in a relationship with John involves a lot of negotiation with Sherlock. This is some overdue negotiation. Perhaps he already knows I’m here and has sent you on ahead.”

 

“If he has he planned it really carefully,” Archie says with a raised brow. “Like, he set me up months in advance. Can’t see what I’d being to the table that would be worth all that.”

 

Mary huffs. “I want you to leave before he gets here.”

 

Archie bites his lip. “I’ll go if you tell me why you’re really here. I’m not a kid any more; I want to know. If you tell me I’ll go away and I won’t tell anyone what you said.”

 

Mary watches him for a long moment.

 

She sighs.

 

”Do you know what happens when your child dies? Ignore all the shit about five stages of grief – that’s for people who are dying – no what happens is you are left with thousands of questions. Every day you work out how old she’d be and no matter how much you try not to you fantasise, you imagine what she’d be like now. On every birthday you imagine the shrieks of the other children at the party, every Christmas you pick out presents. Only you know it’s made up and you know that whatever you imagine is ridiculously wrong. The little girl you’re mentally dressing in pink might have loved pink, or loathed it, or insisted on jeans… and as time passes you know that the imaginary world you’re inventing is getting more and more wrong.

 

“But that’s not even the worst thing. The worst thing is that I started looking at John and… wondering if it was his fault.”

 

“Because he’s a doctor?”

 

Mary shakes her head. “No. Because somewhere, between the two of you is the gene that caused all this. One of us carried it, one of us is genetically _responsible_ … and that question is what drives people apart afterwards. Was I to blame? Was it him? Because _someone_ has to be to blame.”

 

“Anyway,” Mary’s tone is overly casual, “as it turned out it was my fault.”

 

“You can’t know that.”

 

“Yes. Well no. Not really. But I think the fact I’m dying is a pretty strong indication that I’m the one with the faulty genetics.”

 

Archie doesn’t know what to say. How to react. He says nothing, just blinks. It seems like the right thing to do because Mary carries on talking.

 

“That’s why I came back. I don’t intend to carry on much longer but I left with unfinished business and now I can get it right.”

 

“Why… what about the gun?” Archie says. “Are you going to… finish yourself off with it?”

 

He can’t believe how calm he’s being about the whole thing.

 

Mary shakes her head. “No. No, this is just symbolic. When Sherlock shoots me he can’t use this gun. It might be traced back to John.”

 

“Sherlock’s going to _shoot_ you?”

 

_He’s not. He wouldn’t._

 

“I’m going to ask him to.” She smiles in a way that isn’t funny. “I shot him. It’s only right he should be the one to balance the books. And I _want_ to die; I trust him to do it cleanly and without any resentment. I’d ask John but… he wouldn’t be able to move on like Sherlock could. In a way this is a neat solution-“

 

“Not it’s not!” Archie snaps. “It’s stupid. It’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.”

 

He knows that he came here with the express purpose of being furious at Sherlock, but her words make him finally understand the situation. He suddenly feels protective in a way he never has before. For all those years Sherlock has been trying to help, but he needed the help more than Archie ever did and so his advice was inevitably bad, a child trying to fix the solutions of the grownups around him.

 

Archie isn’t a proper grownup yet, but he has to be one because now Sherlock needs him. Sherlock’s in love with John, its plain to see, and now Mary’s back and she’s dying and she’s expecting him to fix it all.

 

“Well for a start,” Archie explains, “as someone who has had Sherlock as a mentor I can tell you than fixing life problems isn’t his strong point. If you want to come out to your dad on top of the Empire State Building surrounded by tourists, he’s great, but otherwise you’re asking too much of him. And even if you did shoot him-“ he very pointedly asks nothing about that one “-then you aren’t making things even. I don’t think shooting people works like that. Maybe it does if he was really mad about it, but he’s not. You’re basically going to him and saying _‘I want you to do me a big favour and by the way, thanks for overlooking the whole shooting thing.’_ ”

 

Mary’s face is entirely blank.

 

Archie shrugs. “Just a thought. I’m not a grownup or anything but there’s got to be a better plan. Because John doesn’t seem happy, and Sherlock’s not happy because John’s not happy. If you really wanted to apologise you could try and make them happy somehow.”

 

“And how do I do that?”

 

Archie shrugs. “Told you, I’m not the adult here.”

 

He stands. “I’m going to go. I’ll catch him another time.”

 

\--

 

The problem, Archie realises much later, is that he doesn’t really have much chance to keep up with Sherlock’s life. His relationship so far with Sherlock has been founded entirely on his visits and he can’t just start turning up unannounced without rousing suspicion.

 

Being there for Sherlock would be a lot easier if he had a clue of what had happened after he left Mary. He doesn’t think for a moment that a distressed Sherlock would consider Archie his first port of call for a mug of hot chocolate and a chit chat.

 

The idea, when it comes, is brilliant. Sherlock thinks he’s Archie’s mentor.

 

Archie needs to create a situation where he needs one.

 

\--

 

Archie’s first instinct is to go for something a little more dramatic, but he doesn’t want Sherlock to get suspicious, so he has to go with something a bit more everyday than being caught stealing designer belts from Armani.

 

Nicking memory sticks from the supermarket is less glamorous but slightly more believable. He’s stunned at how long it takes to get caught; he’s hardly trying to hide, he’s wearing a baseball cap, a hoodie, carrying a big bag, and trying to look shifty.

 

When the guard finally cottons on, Archie is carted off for interrogation. He hadn’t expected the supermarket to have its own cell (it’s really just a very secure room with a chair) but otherwise it isn’t too uncomfortable an experience.

 

“Hi dad,” he smirks when a stony faced Sherlock shows up.

 

“I’m not your father,” is Sherlock’s greeting. He looks vaguely offended at the idea, which considering his feelings for Archie’s father is fair enough.

 

Archie shrugs.

 

“What’s more I have a somewhat recognisable face _. They_ know I’m not your father.”

 

Archie shrugs again.

 

“Let’s get this little cry for help on the road shall we?” Sherlock sighs. “I’ve told them I’ll get my good friend Inspector Lestrade to lecture you on the evil of stealing from multinational supermarkets and they’ve agreed to let you go.”

 

This is better than Archie had hoped for. He’d at least expected a trip to the police station, but apparently it’s too much effort and so he’s quickly out in the sunshine with only a ban from the store for his troubles.

 

Sherlock takes him to Angelo’s, which is so quiet for the lunchtime hour that he suspects Sherlock might have got Angelo to open up just for him.

 

“Sorry,” says Archie, feeling at least like he should make some sort of token apology.

 

“I wasn’t busy,” Sherlock waves him off. “Though for future reference I prefer texting when people want to ask me inane question about how I am.”

 

Don’t react, Archie tells himself.

 

“Huh?”

 

Archie, you’re dressed like you read a manual on how to look like a Chav, and you tried to shoplift memory sticks - which no one uses anymore - you know Mary’s back, you haven’t heard from me, you go out and get into a situation where I have to come and fetch you, it’s not the sort of spy-work that keeps MI5 awake at night.”

 

Archie revies his plan. It doesn’t matter, he supposes, if Sherlock works it out. The point is, he still has to be there for Sherlock. It’s like a double bluff. Or a triple bluff.

 

“How did you know I talked to Mary?”

 

Sherlock looks like Archie might have some sort of hidden brain injury. “Mrs. Hudson told me.”

 

“Oh. How is Mary?”

 

“Dying. Which you know perfectly well.

 

“Apart from dying I mean.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes as if to state that he’s completely unqualified to judge Mary’s wellness or lack thereof in anything but medical terms.

 

“And John?”

 

“He’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine. Mary isn’t fine, but in terms other than the biological, she too seems to be fine.”

 

“ _Fine_ ,” says Archie. “I’m glad. Tell Mary my mum heard she was back and wants to see her.”

 

“Your mother can tell her herself.”

 

Archie ignores this. They return to their meal.

 

“Are you going to tell my mum about the shoplifting thing?” Archie asks as their plates are cleared.

 

Sherlock makes a face. “Why would I do that?”

 

“Other grownups would. But I forget, you aren’t a grownup, are you?”

 

 

\--

 

 

It’s been six months since the shoplifting incident and Archie only has the vague impressions that his mother gives him about Mary, who she visits at least twice a week. Her reports are about Mary’s health and mood, how John is coping, and the occasional scant piece of news about Sherlock fussing over the two of them.

 

“Mary is full of praise for you,” his mother smiles. “You must have made quite the impression when you saw her.”

 

“Not really,” Archie frowns.

 

“She said she took your advice to heart and said for you not to worry about John and Sherlock. That they’ll be fine.”

 

“Do you think they’ll be fine?” he asks.

 

His mum considers. “It used to be Mary and John, and Sherlock. Now it’s Sherlock and John, and Mary. I don’t know whether they’ve noticed that yet, but Mary has, and I think it’s a real comfort to her.”

 

\--

 

In the end Archie is struck by inspiration at a party.

 

Well, he is struck by five shots and half a bottle of cider, but it’s nevertheless inspiration.

 

The reason for the party isn’t important other than that someone’s friend is a friend of someone who is a friend of Archie’s friend Keely and as a result they all end up in a nice house which has been somehow left to the mercy of a bunch of unsupervised teenagers.

 

Archie thinks the whole thing is stupid when he arrives, but the alcohol is everywhere and it suddenly seems like a good idea. If he gets drunk he can’t phone his mum because she’d yell a lot, and Laurence would come and collect him but would also be high and mighty about it and force him to drink healthy kale smoothies the next morning by claiming that they’ll help even though it’s purely just to punish him.

 

Which means that he’ll have to call Sherlock, and Sherlock - no matter how pissed off he might be - won’t actually leave him to the mercies of London. He therefore needs no encouragement to accept every drink he is offered and when the room starts to spin he texts Sherlock and waits, telling anyone who’ll listen about his genius, genius plan.

 

Archie is slumped on a sofa when Sherlock arrives and isn’t entirely sure what is happening, but Sherlock seems like a superhero when he sweeps into this everyday drunken mess of teenagers. He does something and the teenagers are ejected from the house. A few seconds later Archie is yanked to his feet.

 

“Like you’ve n’ver got drunk,” Archie grumbles as he’s hauled into the freezing air outside and dragged, stumbling, towards a taxi.

 

The taxi driver tries to bar Archie entry to his cab, clearly having experience of drunk teenagers, and is rewarded with a fistful of twenties and the wrath of Sherlock’s abuse. One inside, Sherlock hands him a bottle of water but otherwise says nothing to him for the entire ride. This pushes Archie to be as provocative as possible.

 

“I’m not sorry,” he says. “I just want to be a normal teenager… you know what that’s like? Do you even know what it’s like to be me?”

 

Nothing.

 

“And it’s not like I can talk to you. If I wasn’t drunk you’d be ignoring me still wouldn’t you? You’re ignoring me now. You _are_ ignoring me aren’t you? Is it because I’m a kid? Cause I’m not. I’m sixteen.”

 

Nothing.

 

They pull up outside the house and Sherlock gestures for the door.

 

Archie can’t believe that Sherlock is just going to send him off without even a word.

 

“That’s it?”

 

This seems to annoy Sherlock more than anything. “ _Yes._ That’s it. Get out.”

 

“I wanted to talk to you. About stuff.”

 

“You’re, as you so rightly say, sixteen. You’re perfectly able to text me. Get. Out.”

 

“Fine!” Archie says, plan briefly forgotten in his annoyance. “Fine. I’ll go. Dunno what’s got you so worked up…”

 

Well okay, he guesses that having to drag a drunk teenager who isn’t even related to you out of a party and then finding out he was only doing it for attention would be enough to piss off most people. He’s at least that self-aware.

 

“Get out.”

 

Archie does as he’s told. The cold air sobers him slightly on the very short walk from the gate to his front door. Sobers him enough to realise, as the taxi screeches away, that that went very badly indeed.

 

He steels himself for the inevitable telling off, manages to open the door, and steps inside. The house is stiflingly warm and the lights are still on.

 

“Hello?”

 

“In here.”

 

His mum is in the living room, she’s sitting on the sofa and watching repeats on Dave. She hates TV and she hates Top Gear and Archie is too drunk to remember that he shouldn’t be loudly drawing attention to himself by announcing this.

 

He props himself up against the doorframe so as not to visibly sway, but she just looks confused.

 

“I thought you were staying at your friend’s tonight,” she says.

 

Even through the haze of his own drunkenness he can hear hers in the rasp of her voice. There are two bottles of red wine on the coffee table; one is empty, the other is open.

 

“You’ve been drinking,” he says, which is admittedly a bit hypocritical.

 

She raises her eyebrows. “So have you, I see.”

 

They stare at each other. She pats the seat next to her on the sofa and he drops down into it. They watch Jeremy Clarkson for a while.

 

“So, what happened to ‘staying at a friend’s’?” she asks.

 

“I lied,” says Archie. “I was going to a party. Being a normal teenager.”

 

His mum nods.

 

“How did you get home?”

 

“I called Sherlock.”

 

Her head snaps around. “What?!”

 

He holds up his hands. “I didn’t want to worry either of you!”

 

She holds up her own to ward off his protestations. “No it's not that, though I am going to be _mad_ tomorrow when I’m not pissed and you are very hungover… no… Sherlock actually came and got you?”

 

Archie nods.

 

She blinks.

 

“But… oh Archie… Mary died this morning.”

 

 

 

**End of Chapter Five  
**

[Death in the Afternoon (a suitably alcoholic cocktail)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Death_in_the_Afternoon_%28cocktail%29)

(If you are rich enough to have the ingredients for this to hand, we need to be friends.)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised this would be the final chapter, but it got long and worked better split into two. The next chapter will be the actual last one, I promise, hand on heart. 
> 
> I also worked at a (British, rhymes with ‘Mazda’) supermarket that had its own holding cell for shoplifters. Not making that one up.


	6. The Funeral

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the huge delay. I started a new fic with this mostly written, so in my head I just ignored it because it was pretty much done. Anyway, I’ve finally edited it and posted it!

The morning after the night before is as unpleasant as might be expected. Archie throws up a lot and when he isn’t throwing up he wishes he was. He’s mortified and tries to think of some way to fix it all without success.

 

Sherlock had come to get Archie even though he’d just lost… well… he’d lost whatever Mary was to him. Maybe Sherlock was sad about her, but he was almost certainly sadder for John. And Archie made him leave John: no wonder he was mad. He’d probably been as mad as when Archie’s dad had written that stupid article; Archie currently wishes _he_ could run off to another country so as to never make Sherlock cross again.

 

But he’s better than that. He sends a text, which is what he probably should have done in the first place.

 

To: Sherlock

_I’m sorry. Stupid isn’t even the word._

 

After a bit of thought he adds:

 

To: Sherlock

_If it helps I feel really ill this morning so I am suffering loads._

 

The response comes when the worst of the hangover is gone and Archie is cautiously nibbling some toast.

 

From: Sherlock

_It’s of no importance._

 

Archie isn’t sure how to take this. It’s somehow worse than he expected; he isn’t even important enough for Sherlock to be properly angry at.

 

But then one more text arrives.

 

From: Sherlock

_Your mother’s hangover should wear off in half an hour. You might want to make yourself scarce._

 

\--

 

 

His mum does yell at him, but it’s half-hearted at best. Mary’s death has hit her far harder than Archie would have expected. After all those years Mary was gone she’d picked right up where their friendship had left off; she’d been forever going to the hospital with magazines and toiletries and things for her.

 

In the next few weeks she goes back and forth to Baker Street to see John and Archie gets the sense that, although she knows she’s not actually being any help, at least she can be there for John should her help be required. She knows it’s a gesture, and John knows it’s a gesture, and since Sherlock hasn’t kicked her out yet he’s clearly worked out it’s an important gesture too.

 

Archie eventually plucks up enough courage to go along with her, and for once it’s not about Sherlock. He’s practically an adult and he knew Mary; he should make the gesture too.

 

Sherlock isn’t there, which Archie quickly gathers is typical when his mother is around.

 

“You know what he’s like,” John says, scrubbing at his eyes. “People making a fuss. Drives him mad. Drives me mad too for that matter.”

 

He starts, realises what he’s said and how that might sound, but Archie’s mum brushes it off.

 

“It’s ok. I know what you mean. I’d be fed up of people too in your position.”

 

John sighs. “I don’t think there _is_ anyone else in my position. It’s not like I had the most normal marriage. I don’t even know if you can even call it a marriage. I only had one good month, followed by seven really bad months, two brilliant months, and another four horrific months. That was the end of it. No one to blame really. Though god knows I’ve tried…”

 

“Not her though,” he says quickly. “I never blamed her for…”

 

“No one would ever think you did,” Archie’s mum says.

 

Archie remembers what Mary said in that last conversation. “She didn’t blame you either. I saw her and she told me that.”

 

He doesn’t mention the bit where she wondered about who was to blame for the baby dying, because he doesn’t think she meant it really and even if she did, it won’t help.

 

John smiles tightly. “Thank you Archie.”

 

The visit goes on for another twenty minutes and then seems to end as if some sort of timer has gone off. His mum says that they need to be going, John thanks them for coming in an absent minded sort of way and ushers them out.

 

Archie’s not here because of Sherlock, but he figures he should bring up what happened. “I’m really sorry about what I did on… that night. I already said sorry to Sherlock but I should say it to you…”

 

“It’s ok,” John smiles genuinely at this. “Though it doesn’t seem possible you’re old enough for stupid teenager stuff. It gave Sherlock a chance to get angry which is what he needed. So I suppose you helped, in a way.”

 

 

\--

 

 

The funeral is small, mainly because there’s not a lot of people to attend it. There’s John and Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Archie, his mum, Lottie, Laurence, a couple that seem to be friends of John and Sherlock’s, and someone he thinks might have been a bridesmaid at the wedding. There’s also an orange-tanned man with slicked back hair and a green tie that’s far too colourful for a funeral. He is given a few curious glances but Archie’s mum whispers that he was a nurse who’d looked after Mary.

 

The vicar doesn’t say much about Mary’s life, but he talks a lot about how John and Mary met and about their beautiful little girl, which makes John bow his head. There’s no mention of Mary running away or any of the sadness and it’s nice enough, for a funeral. He tries to be solemn and think of the last time he saw her, the one and only time he actually had a conversation with her, of how pretty she’d looked after having the baby, and how nice everything had seemed on that visit. She was just a woman he’d barely known, but he’d liked her, even if he didn’t understand much of what she’d done.

 

After a mumbled hymn, the vicar announces that there are going to be some words spoken at Mary’s request.

 

John’s bowed head shoots up and he looks at Sherlock in confusion. Sherlock shrugs and everyone else looks around to work out who it’s supposed to be.

 

“At the request of Mary, Mr. Harper is going to say a few words.”

 

The man in the green tie stands and make his way to the front of the room.” He doesn’t look much like a nurse, he’s in his fifties and there’s a scar on his face.

 

He reaches into his pocket and retrieves some notes which he begins to read in a stilted, Russian accent.

 

“At the request of Mary Watson, I have to say the following: _I promise, categorically, not to harm any of the women or children present_.”

 

For a second his words don’t register, but the gun that appears from nowhere and fixes steadily on Sherlock gets everyone’s attention. Mrs. Hudson shrieks, his mum wraps her arms around Lottie and Archie (he wonders if he counts as a child), and the grey haired friend of John’s tries to fumble for his phone without being noticed.

 

“I also have the following statement to read, written by Mary herself.”

 

_“John. Thanks for arranging the funeral. And thanks for being good to me over the last few months when you had no real reason to be. I wouldn’t have traded them for anything. Thank you Archie – if you’re at the funeral – for what you said on the day I came back. I have you to thank for those extra months.”_

It’s odd, hearing those words through a stranger’s mouth. At the mention of his name, his mum squeezes him tighter.

 

_“Anyway – John - you need to move on. This funeral is the end of my life so let it be the end of that chapter of yours. I loved you and you didn’t deserve the pain I put you through, or the pain that visited both of us. Instead think of the good times; chief among them the wedding. We were happiest then, weren’t we?”_

John nods, as though she can hear. His eyes are still fixed on the gun though. Everyone’s are.

_“We were happy because Sherlock was there and there was just the right amount of chaos. We promised until death do I part and I know you kept that promise, even though we were apart. Well death has parted us, so I thought it would only be appropriate to end our marriage in the same way it begun. With murder, action packed adventure, and bad guys to hunt down.”_

_“There was one lose end I didn’t manage to resolve during my time away, before I became ill, so I thought you and Sherlock might like a go at it. Mr. Harper is looking for some blueprints that I had tracked as far as London. The only clue I had was in my coat pocket, which I imagine Mrs. Hudson has already given to charity.”_

 

There’s a gasp of horror from Mrs. Hudson and she begins frantically defending her actions.

 

_“Mr. Harper is quite keen to get it back and will be holding the funeral hostage until he does. Admittedly since I’ve made him promise not to shoot anyone it’s not much of a threat: but Mr. Harper is only a small cog in the machine. You’ll need to catch his boss, or the wake will be awful, even by the standards of normal funerals. So have fun boys. Let this be the start of an exciting new chapter in your lives. Love Mary. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss.”_

 

For a moment the whole room is silent.

 

And then it all turns into chaos.

 

\--

 

It’s not the first time Archie goes back to 221b, but it’s the first time in a while.

 

He’s in his mid-twenties now. He’s studied, and travelled, fallen in love several times, has a low paid job he quite likes and a second career called ‘writing trashy, gory novels and selling them on the internet for a microscopic profit’.

 

It hasn’t been perfect. Lottie has been seriously ill with meningitis, his relationship with his father has never quite recovered from the Empire State Building incident, he spent a month in hospital after a car crash that fractured his skull and put an early end to his travelling plans, he’s had relationships end badly.

 

All in all it’s a perfectly average mix good and bad things.

 

John answers the door because Mrs. Hudson really is too frail to do it now and he climbs the stairs, if not slowly, then with the slightly measured step of someone whose back is liable to suddenly twinge. He makes tea and takes some downstairs, leaving Sherlock and Archie alone.

 

Sherlock is gloriously unaffected by age, which no doubt must piss off John enormously. He looks older, obviously, has the expected lines on his face and grey in his hair, but he moves with the same ease and talks at the same pace as ever.

 

Sherlock and John aren’t actually old, Archie knows, both sitting at either side of sixty, but it’s still surprising.

 

Sherlock is talking about Archie’s novel. Archie is surprised he found it since he didn’t use his real name and it’s not popular enough to be easily stumbled across. But that’s Sherlock for you.

 

Then again, his mum might have said something. She talks about it to anyone who’ll listen.

 

“It’s not actually based on you,” Archie says, defending himself against Sherlock’s accusation.

 

It’s about a female ballet dancer (Honeysuckle West) who pirouettes by day, drinks in the evening, and murders by night. Yes she has a big coat, but she lives in New York and its set at Christmas, it would be weirder if she didn’t.

 

He listens to a long explanation of the twenty five reasons that Honeysuckle West was obviously inspired by Sherlock and why he isn’t happy about it (with the implication that Sherlock’s influence has completely moulded Archie’s life thrown in for good measure.)

 

“I’m surprised you used a pseudonym,” Sherlock says tartly. “I thought your generation wanted any attention: good or bad.”

 

Archie grins. “And there it is!”

 

“What?” Sherlock blinks.

 

“Proof that you actually are tuning into a grumpy old man after all. Can we put my writing efforts to one side?”

 

“With _pleasure_. Though I do have some concerns about the grammar…”

Archie glares to shut Sherlock up, sips his tea and looks around the room. It’s not changed that much: more technology has crept in which is the same everywhere, but Sherlock (and it was no doubt Sherlock rather than John) has balanced this out by keeping it more cluttered and covered in paperwork than ever. John’s red chair is surprisingly less worn and still a rich red, suggesting it’s been re-upholstered, but Sherlock’s chair is showing signs of its no doubt much-abused lifestyle with pride.

 

“So how are you and John?”

 

Sherlock expression is as closed off as it ever was when it came to this sort of question. Archie’s mum has said that the only difference since (as she put it) ‘ _things changed’_ was that now Sherlock is closed off and slightly smug whereas before he was closed off and cold.

 

Sherlock is relaxed and therefore his attempt as ‘closed off’ is somewhat lacklustre and easily eclipsed by the smugness. He waves a hand around the room as if it should tell Archie everything he needs to know (and to be fair he probably thinks it does.)

 

“You can see how we are.”

 

Archie smiles. “Yeah, I can. That’s not why I’m here though.”

 

“I know that. You could have just sent an invitation.”

 

Archie pretends he isn’t talking with someone bordering on psychic and fills in the blanks anyway.

 

“I’ve met someone. We’re getting married. And I’m telling you in person because then you can’t politely decline to come.”

 

Sherlock opens his mouth, no doubt to do exactly that (with less politeness), but it’s all for show and so Archie presses on.

 

“His name is Mason Michael Green. He’s training as an architect.”

 

“And I need to know this why?”

 

Archie grins and leans forward.

 

“Because, from what I remember, you’re great at wedding planning.”

 

 

The End

(Recipe: [Profiteroles](http://www.bbc.co.uk/food/recipes/chocolateprofiterole_86196), because Sherlock clearly approved them for John and Mary's wedding.)

 


End file.
